


Remains of the Day

by NoctuaFoxglove



Category: Geist: the Sin Eaters, World of Darkness (Games)
Genre: (Not all of them mine), Ghosts, Individual content warnings will be given at the beginning of each chapter, Seriously be ready for just about any method of death, Violence, graphic depictions of death
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-12-06
Updated: 2018-12-06
Packaged: 2019-09-12 20:22:55
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 16
Words: 16,267
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16878564
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NoctuaFoxglove/pseuds/NoctuaFoxglove
Summary: A collection of ficlets about how various characters became Sin-Eaters and met their Geists.





	1. Jacob

**Author's Note:**

> Content Warning: Child death

Jacob Collin's first summer vacation. He'd felt so proud of himself for completing his first year of school without any incident, but summer hit and the structure had left him spoiled. It was a blistering July day, and his mother told him again and again that it was too dangerous to go outside.

But the only thing Jacob was about to die of was boredom.

The TV flickered in the air-conditioned living room, the colorful faces of the cartoons making their desperate bids to entertain him. He'd seen them all before, the same episodes running over and over until he could mouth the words along with the dialog. Boring. He also didn't feel like wrestling the Game Boy from his brother and sister, knowing that with their superior strength, they would win.

He stared wistfully out the window, into the open plains and the cheap swingset that rest in the yard. The cornfields, within walking distance, that he could weave his way through. Find some bugs, nestle down and read one of his books. He was the top of his class at reading, you know. So good he could read anywhere without any help. Even outside, by himself.

Too dangerous. It's just outside. He'd been outside when it was hot before and he'd been just fine.

He was done sitting there and fidgeting. Mom was upstairs in her room, doing paperwork. He could sneak out for a few minutes and come back, and no one would know.

And so he did.

He let out a laugh as the summer sun hit his face, the warmth and open air refreshing. The air conditioner inside was freezing cold and gave the air a funny smell, but out here he took in a breath and there was summer grass, the scent of sun-baked earth and corn. Clutching his book, he made his way out to the swings and set it to the side as he let out some of his energy. Higher, higher, higher still, higher than he'd ever been pushed. He whooped and laughed, but eventually stopped, wobbling a little as the movement still left this head feeling funny.

He took his book back and it stuck a little to his hand. No longer cooled by the wind from the swing, sweat started pouring down his skin. But that was okay. That's just what happened when it got hot outside, right? He should be okay if he just went to take a break to read. To the cornfield he went, but his vision got blurrier as he got closer. He wiped the sweat off his forehead and already the skin was getting tender. Even more reason to get into the shade.

He reached the field's edge and it began to sink in that something was very wrong. His mouth hung open, sucking in nothing but hot, dry air that was no help at all. Feet tangled against each other, and the more he tried to control them the more they stumbled. He couldn't concentrate, couldn't even make out the words on the cover of his book anymore. Everything felt weak, and moisture poured out of him, drop by drop, soaking his clothes.

It was too hot. Too hot. He had to get back home, but where was it? The landscape had become a blur, the white-painted house becoming one with the empty sky, the handful of trees giving no frame of reference.

He started to yell, weakly, hoarsely, but as much as he could, praying that someone could hear him. But nobody came. His voice got weaker as the bone-dry air wicked away at his throat until his shouts became nothing more than raspy whimpers.

He ducked into the cornfield, curling up and hoping that they would give him enough shade to keep him going until he was found. But it wasn't enough.

* * *

The sun was going down when he finally woke up to several voices shouting his name. He sat up with a start. How long had he been sleeping? He must have done the right thing, because with the air cooling down he finally had the energy to stand back up. The world had become clear again, and he could see the figures darting around the front yard, tiny people hollering for him. He was okay.

As he made his way back home, his mother rushed over, tears streaking down her face as she gathered him up. Every one of her touches hurt like fire on his skin, burnt red and raw, but he knew she didn't mean it. She promptly dragged him inside. He was in for the scolding of a lifetime. Wasn't the sunburn bad enough? He'd smell like aloe vera for the rest of the summer.

That was the day that Jacob met the friend that helped to save him. Someone that only he could see, even if it really wasn't a person. It looked like a weather vane, an old fashioned one with a rooster on the front, but the pewter bird seemed alive, jerking its head this way and that. It creaked like rusted metal, wildly as vicious, tearing winds would threaten to bend it. Sometimes, under the din, he could hear the faint howling of sirens.

The friend might have been scary sometimes, but it wasn't mean. It was why he didn't die that day. And twenty years later, even through mental illness and medication, it was still there.

Whatever it was, it was real.


	2. Benj

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Content Warning: This one's pretty tame, but it's a crossover.

It was the third time Benjamin Abrams pulled out his phone. Nervously tapping the side with his finger, he frowned as the screen was yet again a blank. No new messages. Where was Leon? They were supposed to meet here thirty minutes ago. It wasn't like him to not at least say something. Not to someone who had been his best friend for years. Maybe... maybe more than that, even.

The only reason had to be that something was wrong. Maybe it was innocuous, just a dead battery or bad signal. But what if it was something more? What if his friend was in trouble? Hurt, or worse? Worry spiked through his head.

Benj unlocked his phone and quickly tapped another message, sending it off.

Five minutes passed. Still no answer.

He shook a little. Another message.

"im coming over. hope youre okay"

Benj began to walk back the way he'd came. As it was a busy Friday night, the streets were packed, the only available parking quite a ways away. And as the streets became more and more dense, the more eyes he felt on him. Though they didn't know the experience his past had given him in defending himself, that still didn't change that he must have looked like an easy target for muggers. Patting at the gun in his pocket, he continued on his way.

He'd parked in a space behind some buildings, a bit into a remote alleyway, but at last it was in sight without incident. He pulled out his keys, but just as he unlocked the truck, he heard a thump behind him. Immediately he relocked, and turned around, though he saw the reflection first in the window.

It was a young woman who looked almost his age. Her clothes were tattered, her skin filthy, and her skin pale and sunken. It might have been pitiable if it wasn't for the wild look in her eyes. Whoever this was, she wasn't poor or disheveled. She was downright predatory.

"W-who are you?" Benj stammered out. His hand began to reach into his pocket.

She didn't answer, but simply smiled. She sauntered forward, confident and yet completely defenseless. There was something strange about her grin; as she got closer it was clear that fangs protruded down her lips.

"I'm armed." Benj said, pulling out his piece and aiming it at her. His eyes were wide, and he couldn't believe what he was seeing was real. Those can't be...

"And I don't give a fuck." she answered.

His finger moved into position, and as it did she leaped forward. The gun fired, blasting a bloody hole through her torso at point-blank range, but she wasn't deterred. It didn't even seem to cause her any particular pain. She grabbed his wrist and there was enough power in her hold that he felt the bones underneath would snap, and she wrenched the gun from his hold, throwing it underneath the truck.

"Fuck! Help! Please, someone! He-"

His words cut off into a choked moan as she went straight for his throat. There was no pain as she bit him, not even a sting as the fangs penetrated flesh. There was immediate, blissful pleasure that made his heart pound more blood into the leech's mouth, sending shivers through his body. It was... familiar. It felt like-

It felt like...

His eyelids fluttered, veins rapidly growing empty and consciousness quickly growing hazy and distant. A slight buzzing sensation ran across his thigh from inside his pocket. But it had lost all its meaning. The world faded gracefully from view into vast blackness. Benjamin Abrams soon followed it into the darkness.

* * *

He found himself face to face with a single ice-blue eye, surrounded in a halo of shredding, gnashing teeth.

A yelp left his throat and he was surprised to find that he pulled air into his lungs, the shot of adrenaline firing through refilled veins. Was he still dead? Was this Hell? No, Hell wouldn't be floored in concrete. He looked around and saw the discarded gun underneath his truck. Right where it was left.

No. He was alive again, despite all odds. Then what the hell was this thing staring him down?

He directed his gaze back in front of him, to the bloated long body of this beast and the hundreds of skittering, chitinous legs that kept it propped up. It hissed and sputtered, but seemed to take no movements to harm him. It even moved backwards, curling around the front of his truck, but ever watching him with that unblinking eye, set in a lamprey mouth.

It clambered on top of the truck, sitting in the bed like some kind of grotesque pet, jabbing one forelimb towards the driver's seat. Whatever this is, Benj thought, it wants me out of here. And after checking his phone and cheating death, he wasn't in much position to argue.


	3. David

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Content warning: Suicide

David sat alone in his tiny dormitory, head pressed tightly against his desk. It wouldn't be much longer that he'd stay in this place at the rate he was going. Another breakdown. Another several hours sitting here, staring point-blank at the cheap wood of his desk because the thought of doing anything more was mind-bendingly terrifying. Why did the simplest things have to be so difficult, for him and only him? He'd started on equal footing with his sister, at the same place, but while she was out making connections and friends, excelling, he was already failing.

But it'd always been that way, hadn't it?

This time alone, out of the careful, sometimes crushing glances of his parents, had left him stranded, left him time to think and realize that something inside him was broken that wasn't broken in his sister. His hands would shake as he filled out paperwork, and his peers could smell the weakness on him. It only took one night of going out to try to connect before he was sent back to his dorm, unable to scrub out the memory of something he knew he could tell no one.

That was alright. It was his fault for being so weak.

Every new attempt to do anything brought new failures, and with those failures brought fear. He knew how stupid this all was. None of this should be hard, but it all was. At least before he had something to keep pushing him forward. But it became increasingly clear that he was never meant to survive on his own.

The idea crept into his mind and, as the days crept away, it festered like an open wound. His phone went untouched, calls and texts gone unanswered.

If he could not survive on his own, he thought, he would cease to be a burden on anyone.

Gathering the tools was easy, and as he set them up he felt an odd sort of calm wash over him. Some broken part of his mind was satisfied. Yes, it said to him, end it. This is what you are meant to do. Worthless. This is what a weak, worthless thing like you deserves. This is the best end for you. The words were said not with a sneer, but soft, soothingly, coaxing him as he raised the bottle of sleeping pills to his lips, chasing them with a draught of vodka.

That was it. It was so easy. The easiest thing he'd done in his whole life. Now all he had to do was wait.

He lay still on the cot and closed his eyes. It was just like falling asleep.

* * *

Coughing and sputtering, he rolled off the cot into the floor and the air filled with the smell of bile and alcohol. Adrenaline spiked into his chest as he stared down at the puddle underneath him that was filled with half-dissolved pills.

I did it, he thought. I tried to kill myself. I /did/ kill myself.

The guilt hit him instantly, and he broke into tears, climbing away from the mess he made as sobs wracked his body. How could he have done such an awful, selfish thing? Maybe he did deserve to die, but that would have been just another way of burdening those who for some reason loved him.

But what could he do now? He felt trapped. Trapped in this tiny room that now reeked, and trapped by the feeling of being too weak to live and too afraid to die again.

Something prodded at his back. He snapped to attention, but he found the room empty.

Empty except for a pair of disembodied hands, attached to arms that seemed to fade into nothing where shoulders should be. The skin was ashen and grey, mottled with black specks that faded as they got closer to the pristine white fingers.

"What..." was all he could say. The hands fidgeted and fussed, and as he kept watching their bizarre movements the arms split into four along the middle, and then into eight, all divided into neat pairs like an invisible crowd that flitted around the room. They groped at items as if they were trying to adjust them, but they phased right through every time.

One pair grabbed him by the shoulders and shook him, which to his surprise he felt to some degree.

"I don't understand..." he said desperately. Had it been this bizarre thing that brought him back? He'd never seen anything like it before, but whatever this was, it wanted him. It shook him again with more urgency, another hand twisting impotently at the doorknob. Yet another pawed at his phone.

He may not have understood what this thing wanted from him, but even someone like he translated what it wanted him to do. For whatever reason, it wanted him to keep going. Might as well.

Not as if he had any idea what to do next.


	4. Engel

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Content Warning: Severe child neglect/Child abuse, bulimia

Engel Vogel closed the bedroom door behind him. A blessed and rare moment of quiet as his parents left the house. But in the silence, the mostly empty room of ratty toys he'd grown out of ages ago, what was there to do but mull over his lot in life?

This quiet introspection became a regular facet of his life since he'd been old enough to comprehend it. It didn't matter what he did within the walls of this house. All of it was wrong. That's what they told him. Excitement, enthusiasm, pride, all emotions that would be shot down the moment he had them, either through the distant, irritated glances of his mother or the more active punishments his father would give him.

Clearly, he wasn't meant to have them.

It was alright, he thought. For a while his youthful self had fought against the treatment, unable to understand why those that were meant to nurture and raise him would treat him this way. If they didn't want him, then why did they exist. He screamed, he cried. He created quite a fuss when he was struck or ignored.

It lasted maybe four years. By age five, he'd given up. The why didn't matter. The pain no longer mattered. The boy would merely exist, and the lack of showing emotion spared him from some of the treatment.

Not to say that it still didn't happen. Physical blows became less common because they no longer drew a reaction. Desperate to assert some more sense of control over a small child, his father decided to restrict his food, seeing how long the boy could go before he'd "earned" it.

The times went longer and longer until life blurred into a haze of constant stomachaches and unfocused thoughts. But that just made it easier not to think about things too hard.

But, try as he might, the emotions remained, balling up into a cancer in his head, ever looming and creeping into what thoughts he did have. It spoke to him. It echoed those words that he heard every day from the outside, welling up into a chorus on the inside. Even what little he was given, he did not deserve. If there were ever a moment that he could be happy, it should immediately be replaced by guilt, and was. The few times he left home, spent time with people who fussed and worried over him before he was quickly rushed away before they noticed too much, an awful self-hatred would grow inside him.

What an awful child you are, for making them worry. For asking for anything. An awful idea struck him, and he ran to the bathroom for the first time to rid himself of what he was given.

Again and again, every time he ate, it became a habit. Keep it long enough to avoid making a scene, and then throw it away. His throat was burned raw, his teeth sensitive to the slightest touch, but in a way he grew to almost find the pain comforting. It was something to feel. It was what he deserved.

Soon his skin clung tightly to his sides, the bones starting to protrude, but still no one noticed. He'd not been allowed to leave the house when they saw how gaunt he'd become. He remembered the frantic scurrying at the distant sounds of knocks on the door, muffled from his weakened state but every day the process would repeat itself. Someone out there was worried about him. They shouldn't be. He hadn't earned their kindness. He never would.

One day he heard them talking in the front room. The words were muddled, but there was a tone of relief in their voices. He heard his name a few times. Engel. Angel. What a name to give to a child he was sure they were hoping would die soon, so he wouldn't be a burden any longer.

He'd give them their wish.

Curling up into bed, he put the covers above his head and closed his eyes. He'd become so weak... not that he had ever been strong, but he could feel his body failing. It'd been on its way out for weeks now. And finally it was time to let go, no matter how long it took. They wouldn't mind. They wouldn't notice.

Gradually, the world faded away, and the pain stopped.

* * *

 

He awoke to a knock on the door.

He kicked away the darkness around him in a blind burst of energy at the sound, faced with the light from his window. He'd _heard_ something. why did he care? Wasn't he supposed to be dead?

There was another knock.

Looking around the room, he noticed something odd, floating a foot above his bed. An angel, almost the same size as him, looking for all the world like a glass ornament. Its face was smooth and stylized, round wings fluttering gently behind it, with delicately-painted features. Its robe flowed around a shapeless form, not silk but a strange, pure white leather.

Its eyes never opened, but still he could tell it was looking at him. Another knock on the door.

_Go._

He heard the words, but at the same time didn't hear them. Either way, he understood. He _had_ died. But he'd returned, and as foolish as it may have been, he felt a spark in his chest. Something bright and alive that had been missing for years.

Hope.

He stood up and staggered to the door. Body still weak, but he kept going, finally being the one to answer the door and letting those there see the emaciated form of the twelve year old boy, stunted so badly he looked three years younger.

He'd finally found something to keep living for. Now if only he could figure out what that was.


	5. Poshum

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Content Warning: Wartime violence, civilian death, burning, holocaust references

The sun rose on the sweeping green hills of the Kosovo countryside. In a land torn by war after war that had raged for nearly ten years, finding a quiet place to settle had become more and more difficult for Poshum and his family. Already they were kicked back and forth, from country line to country line. Nobody wanted them. This was to be expected, but the conflict raised the stakes to almost intolerable levels. In the coming days, they would take the caravan northwest. People may not be more receptive there, but not having to dodge tanks and assault weapons would make it worth it.

But for the moment, they had settled around a copse of trees, tucked safely inside while their flocks grazed peacefully in the spring-brightened fields outside of Pejë . It was a moment's peace. Poshum stirred from his nest of blankets, blinking in the raising sun. Yawning loudly, he did his rounds, rousing his brothers and sisters, mother and father. It was unusual that we was the first one awake, but that hardly mattered. One by one the caravan came to life and the day began. The field filled with children, laughing and chasing one another. Sheep bleated at the approach of the men and their dogs. The women chatted and began the rounds for breakfast. All was right.

Trouble found them, as it always seemed to do these days. Deep rumbling came from down the nearby paved road, and soon military vehicles reared their heads from over the hill. Poshum's father sighed, circling around the frightened sheep to make sure they didn't run. Everyone in the camp prayed that they would pass by, but they would have no such luck. The vehicles swerved onto the dirt, rounding the camp like wolves.

Poshum kept his distance, but watched as uniformed men slammed the doors behind them, toting guns. It wasn't the first time this had happened, but it was always frightening, even to someone as young as him. One of the older men stepped forward to confront them.

"Is there a problem?" the man spoke. The intruders looked at each other and seemed to smile, but their faces went stony cold when they looked back at him.

"You're on private property. You need to leave."

Wasn't that always the excuse. Chances are no one owned this land, but all present, even the youngest children had heard those words dozens of times, and every time they knew they lacked the legal power to argue. The man nodded, and turned to go.

"But maybe we could work something out," the officer in the front spoke. "You do some work for us, and we'll leave your caravan alone."

The man startled, going board-straight where he stood, and Poshum understood why. He'd heard the stories of this happening before, from survivors of the conflicts in the past few years. They didn't want allies. They wanted scapegoats.

If he refused, he would be killed. If he offered, he would have atrocities pinned on him, and then he would be killed. But what would the man do?

He would let them keep their dignity.

"I think that we will pass." the man said. In his voice there was defeat, but also defiance. He stared back at the officers as they raised their guns, and didn't break eye contact even as they fired.

Poshum darted back to the wagons just as he saw the body fall, screaming a warning to the others. The sheep scattered, disappearing over the hills and the camp fell to chaos. The officers moved in as fathers rushed back to their families, pushing them into safety even as their bodies became peppered with bullets. The smell of blood was heavy in the air, and soon, it was followed by the smell of smoke.

The intruders left a parting gift, in the madness of the attack leaving every wagon on fire where the children were hidden from the onslaught. Poshum could hear them from inside, crying and coughing as what survivors were left tugged desperately at the collapsing frames. A few wagons went dead silent, except for the crackling of burning wood.

But Poshum could hear that his wagon still contained life.

Taking no chances, he dove into the back, digging with his bare hands through the charcoal. There was his sister, Nadya, her body curled over their little brother. Poshum wasted no time and grabbed her by the leg, powered by raw adrenaline as he yanked the both of them free and shoved them out. She yelped as she hit the grass, hair burnt almost down to the scalp. But she was alive. He could hear them sputtering as her lungs hit clean air.

He started to climb out, but a horrible creaking filled the tiny space. He desperately urged his muscles to move faster, but no air, no strength...

Wood clattered and pinned him in place, pressing down heavily on the top half of his body, and the pain was unlike anything he'd ever felt before, searing his face, past layer after layer of skin, burning through slowly until his mind simply would not tolerate anymore. It gave itself willingly to the strangling smoke, and the pain drifted away, his world growing dark despite the raging flames.

* * *

 

He awoke to the sounds of screams again. Gunfire. Hissing out a scent of bitter almond.

His scream joined in the chorus and all eyes turned towards him.

But as his eyes caught up with the rest of them, there were no flames, no attackers. There were burnt survivors, tending to each others wounds and reverently laying out the dead.

There they were in neat order. His mother. His father. Two siblings. And him. But he'd been the only one to get back up.

People rushed to him, dragging him away from the bodies and patching up his fresh, aching burns with what little supplies they had. But he was looking beyond them.

Staring at the winding mass of barbed wire that snaked around their bodies but never seemed to touch them. A beast that let out another desperate wail, underlaid by the sounds of shouts and dogs.

It turned its face towards him, little more than holes in its frame where a fire burned underneath.

Fire. The last thing he needed to see right now.

He began to cry.


	6. Klara

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Content Warning: Death by exposure, reference to genocide

Three sisters. The youngest fled.

It was all too much to bear. With her sisters gone, Klara Vovk found herself bearing the brunt of years of frustration within her household. The smell of alcohol and smoke hung heavily in the air always. There was no life, no happiness. Only a cynical coldness, every word barked and sometimes backed up with a harsh hand.

This was nothing new. But before there was at least the promise of something better. The three girls, together, made their own optimism. But perhaps underneath it, the elder two knew that the only way to survive was to leave. At eighteen, they both disappeared. And Klara knew that if she were to make it, she would have to follow suit.

But how was she to succeed where they had? There was something weak inside her, uncertain. A constant underlying static of doubt. There was little love in the household, but there was effort. Wasn't that worth something? Who the hell are you to abandon them and leave them with nothing? You are terrible.

The answer came in a flash of anger and movement as her home city of Kiev tore apart at the seams. Yet again history was repeating itself, and the massive neighbor to the East was beginning to assert herself once again. Even if she held out, there would be no future for Klara here, only a cycle of hope, things getting slightly better before they crashed back down into misery. Nothing ever changes.

It was a decision of raw fear. It was run or die. Run or die. If not die now, then slowly waste away, or so the thing in her chest spoke.

So, in the dead of night, she disappeared, boarding a train heading west with what little money she had. She made eye contact with no one, tears dripping down her face though she didn't make a sound.

She'd developed a talent for crossing borders illegally, but as she made it further and further into western Europe a horrifying thought crept in. Her money was draining fast, eaten away by conversion after conversion until she reached the Union. She was growing hungrier, weaker, but more than that the static had grown to an outright roar, lurking under her every action.

Now you're really going to die, it said. You gave up safety, and now you will pay for it.

It was in Austria that hopelessness really began to set in. She knew no one, had no roots. How was she to set them if she went to country after country without knowing a single bit of the barrage of languages she was faced with? The money had run dry, and she'd developed a cough. Some virus hanging in the air had clung to her weakened state and was ravaging through her body. If she were back home, she would have had shelter, at least. She could have dodged the smoke and anger and slept it off. Sleep... It was probably a week since she actually got any sleep.

But now, this was the third train station she'd been kicked out of. There was nowhere to go but the night streets.

And there was nothing else to feel. She looked down the streets, saw a handful of fast food restaurants whose doors were still open, all easy shelter. But she kept walking, stumbling down the streets looking for all the world like a drunk.

 _I don't deserve it_ , She thought to herself, _Why prolong the inevitable?_

She took a place in an alley behind some buildings, shedding her coat and letting her skin out into the winter night, and closed her eyes. It took a while, but it was quiet. Peaceful.

* * *

 

And her eyes snapped open immediately the second her heart had stopped.

What had changed? Nothing. Except when she jolted there was strength in her limbs again. She drew a breath and her lungs were as clear as they had ever been. Startled, she got to her feet, grabbing her coat and wrapping herself up again.

Not only was she alive, she was in perfect health. And the _energy._ It had to have been years since she'd been this alert.

But why?

The alley contained no one else, but she felt watched. No... there was someone, or something. There had to be, as the feeling of a presence, some kind of consciousness was definite. A breeze tostled her hair, but it didn't move like any natural wind. It was bitingly cold and seemed to swirl around her body in a perfect arc. Small white tendrils moved through it, the occasional bit of trash and debris, leaves.

She reached out and the wind left a phantom frost on her coat that disappeared immediately. Out of the corner of her eye she thought she saw someone lying prone on the ground, but when she looked, there was nothing.

It was bizarre, unnatural, but deep down she knew that whatever this thing was, it was conscious. The wind answered her thoughts, and in its depths she heard echoes. The sounds didn't seem to have any meaning. The barking of a dog, the whinnying of a horse, and finally, human sobs. She heard words, begging and full of despair, in her mother language.

She didn't know what it was trying to say. But somewhere deep down she knew that whatever this thing was, it told her that she had done the right thing. She had to keep going, no matter what it took, and that it would help her.

So went on she did.


	7. Jade

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Content Warning: Cult, extreme dismemberment

It was the story the entire precinct had been talking about. A group, small, but gaining a modest influence sprung in the dark corners of the city. Typical cult behavior, and certainly something the whole force would be keeping their eyes on. Little was known about the inner workings of the group, or even what their goals were to begin with, but as more and more disappearances linked to what was assumed to be their hiding place, there was only one solution, action had to be taken.

With potential murders on the line, this was no place to hold back caution. They needed a thorough investigation, definite proof before they could just out and storm the place. As regrettable as it was to say, many cults came armed with impressive legal teams. But if they could find the dirt they needed, a shutdown would be quick and easy.

Investigator Jade LeClaire led the charge, reaching the first tendrils into the infiltration of this stronghold. She had hoped that this would be an easy, painless mission. How could it not be? There were no plans to make an arrest yet, though she'd be prepared to call for backup if she had to. All she was going to do was ask a few questions, look around, and leave. Any cult leader worth their salt would at least be prepared for that and not arouse any suspicion.

She made her way to the building, located slightly outside the downtown area. Nice neighborhood, too. A sleek, pleasant looking building. Innocuous and hopeful, like a rehab center. Wasn't this how it always went, Jade thought to herself. Make yourself look nice and no one will suspect a thing. She walked to the door and knocked, wearing her uniform but little more. She pawed over the gun in its holster.

After a few moments, a tall, thin woman answered the door, round-faced and pleasant-looking. She wore a white dress but most notably was the large silvery feather tied in her black hair. She also wore a constant smile

_Wonderful. If this doesn't scream 'cult' I don't know what does._

"Well, hello there, Miss." The woman spoke gently, deliberately, "How can I help you today?"

"Hello to you too. Officer Jade LeClaire," She flashed her badge for just a moment, carefully controlling the tone of her own voice to not seem too aggressive despite her discomfort. "Are you a Ms. Adelaide Hepburn?"

The woman's smile twitched, a split-second movement.

"Why yes, that would be me, though please, call me Ma'at."

"Alright... Ma'at. I would like to ask you a few questions. Do you mind if I came in?" Naturally, the response did nothing to put Jade at ease. But if nothing else, she was a professional. Nothing showed on her face but a pleasant smile in return.

"Of course, of course! Please, be my guest!" She stepped from the door, holding it open into the entrance room to the building. Jade thanked her and went inside.

Everything had been done in dusty whites and sandstone beige, but the gold plating lining the blood red furniture dazzled. The walls were inscribed with hieroglyphs that painted their arcane stories. No time to sit and try to decipher them, but Jade was fascinated all the same. This explains the insistence on the strange name, but what an odd subject to revolve a cult around.

"Please, my dear, have a seat. What would you like to know?"

Jade pretended she didn't hear that request, and remained standing, watching the woman closely.

"What would you say your organization is about?" Jade asked, voice firm. The woman's eyes narrowed slightly.

"Ah, so you're curious, yes? Many are, you know. Here, we espouse the values of what lies beyond. We believe that the Ancient Egyptians presented us with a very important dialog about how to best prepare ourselves. We give hope to those who have none, as so many do. Ours is a promise that better things are in store."

This was exactly the kind of answer Jade had been expecting. Some big hooey about how great their little group was and how only they had the true answers. Textbook cult, with the added convenience of probably being a death cult. This was going to be too easy.

"Of course. Admirable goals, for sure," Jade said flatly, "Our reports have shown that several disappearances have been linked to this building. Would you happen to know anything about that?"

It was at this point Jade noticed a change in her face. Her eyes widened, her smile grew, showing teeth.

"We allow... certain members of ours to make a choice." She spoke, her voice taking on an oily quality, "When this life is unsatisfying, is it wrong to force them to continue it? It is our duty to send them off, down that holy river..."

"But many of these... deaths were unreported," Jade's tone became harder, standing resolute in the face of what she now knew was a murderer. "The bodies still haven't been found..." As she put together the pieces, she knew that there was no waiting. This was enough to make a case for a warrant, easily. But she would need to get the information there immediately. The woman already knew what was going on

"Thank you." Jade said abruptly. "This answers my questions. Have a good day..." She turned to leave.

"Oh, you aren't leaving."

"What?"

As she turned to face the woman again, someone else grabbed her from behind. Jade drew her gun, but it clattered to the floor when she felt a prick in her neck. Her muscles slacked and she was unconscious before she even hit the floor.

* * *

 

Jade awoke to frigid water hitting her face. Choking and sputtering, she tried to sit up only to find her arms and legs were bound, her body splayed out and nude on... where? Where the hell was she?

Blinking the water out of her eyes, she finally focused on two faces. One was a man, his face obscured in a mask of what appeared to be a sharp-faced black dog. The other was her target.

"W... what the hell is going on?!" She shouted, fiercely but impotently.

"My dear, you came here to put a stop to our glorious works. I knew that the moment you showed us your uniform. Do you think that I would allow this to happen?"

She leaned in close, wrapping Jade's face in a cloth gag that was scented with fragrant oils and, more distressingly, formaldehyde.

"Your heart has weighed far too heavy." Ma'at spoke, loud enough to echo across the room, "And for such a sinner, a sinner's punishment has been earned. And so, we will deliver you, unclean as you deserve, into the maw of Ammut."

Jade tried to scream, but inhaling the vapors from the cloth left her throat dry and ragged. This was supposed to be easy, not even an arrest, but a simple interrogation. Now she was going to die.

The man lifted a scalpel and Jade winced. He moved to her side and the blade bit in deep, slicing past skin and muscle. The cut itself caused little pain, but he stuck his hand, ungloved, into the wound, stretching it apart, tearing at flesh and nerves. Her eyes rolled into her head, voice bursting out in hoarse wails, all she could manage.

It was a disgusting, alien feeling, the hand groping and grasping where no hand was ever meant to be, pain and shredding at organs that should never be touched. The other hand soon joined it, feeling around until they went to work ripping something out. The bloodstained hands emerged, clutching what had to be her liver.

By the time he had pulled out her stomach, shock settled into her body, and her eyes stared at him working, hazy and detached. Intestines seemed to stretch on forever as they were wound out bit by bit, finally cut loose. Finally, blissfully, it ended, and the world went dark as her lungs were yanked free.

* * *

 

She woke up, yet again, to freezing cold. She shivered deeply and saw her breath in the air.

Breath? Cold? _Living?_

She patted herself down, felt over skin that was chilled on the outside but definitely had warmth underneath. Alive! She was alive!

How?

The first thing to do would be to figure out where the hell she was. It was a very small room, illuminated in what looked like flickering firelight. It took a few moments, but she eventually determined she was in a freezer. Around her, cast in shadows, were other bodies, wrinkled and sunken, and the area reeked of preservatives.

Indeed, her feet were standing in a frigid pool of the stuff herself. She examined her own body and found it only in slightly better shape than her dead compatriots.

She shuddered deeply, this time not just because of the cold. She had to escape.

It didn't look like Ma'at had expected any of the bodies to return to life, and for good reason. Jade knew she should be dead. No one could survive having their organs torn out one by one. No one.

She opened the door to the freezer and brighter lights flooded in. It was then that she noticed the shards of clay around her feet. One shard had buried its way into her foot, but she was far too numb from the cold to notice.

What was the significance of this? Who knows, who cares. She pulled her wrappings tighter around her body and broke off running, down the halls, down the road.

All the while, she was followed by her savior. A three-headed beast, taking on the very image of that that had killed them. None of its heads had much in the way of conscious left, but they knew one thing. This woman that they had saved would bring the end of their suffering, and the suffering of others.


	8. Simon

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Content Warning: AIDS, homophobia

"...So I'm sorry to say, after this vlog I'm going on an... an indefinite hiatus. Some real life stuff has come up. Haven't been feelin' very well, and I think y'all deserve me at my best, yeah?

Anyway, I look forward to hearing your thoughts about today's discussion. Be sure to comment and subscribe. See y'all."

He shut off the webcam, staring into the sightless black lens. He was alone but still felt like he was being stared at. Every one of his followers could see, as much as he tried to hide it, how sunken his face had become. Big black bags hung under his eyes. His voice had grown raspy, coughing every few sentences.

Sure, it would be easy enough to tell them that he'd just gotten a cold, but he knew the truth. This had been going on for weeks, and only getting worse.

And he'd already gotten the diagnosis telling him that he was going to die.

It was frustrating. On some level he was infuriated that he'd worked so hard, climbed up to some mild position of influence only for the sickness to slip it all away from him. Another part of him blamed himself, a constant assault of could-haves and should-haves. Yet another just wanted it to be over. The worry twisted his stomach even more than the illness did, tension forcing his throat closed when he thought about Ezra doting over him, desperately trying to prop up a dying body.

He still didn't know what he did to deserve someone like him.

It would be so easy to just disappear, he thought. So many content providers did just that, after all. He would stop posting and there would be some brief speculation on where he went and then everyone would move on. His own family had already forgotten him and he wasn't even dead yet. Why should so many random strangers get the privilege?

Nonetheless, he gave in. His entire career revolved around broadcasting the truth. He could at least show one last bit of loyalty to that.

He set up the webcam for the first time in two weeks, opening the recording software. It whirred to life, capturing the image of a face that he knew had to look like death.

He spoke, in a voice from a raw throat.

"Hey. I know I said I was gonna be on hiatus, but... well. I gotta be honest with y'all. You deserve it, after all this time supportin' my channel. This is gonna be a bit... informal. I apologize. But I think this needs to be said. For you... and for anyone else out there goin' through what I am.

"One month ago... I was diagnosed with HIV. I got on some treatments for it, but by the time I did it was... well, it was mostly too late. The worst of it had already started. The doctors... they say I don't got too much time left.

"I can't thank you enough for sticking with me for these two years since I started this vlog. That you've cared 'bout what I have to say and have supported me... It means so much. It's been such a great time, discussing these subjects, hearing your opinions, even the fights we've had... Thank you all so, so much.

"I know I've mentioned it a few times before, but... I grew up in the South. And there, it wasn't always easy bein... y'know, gay. And I know I've done a lot to not make that the topic of every vlog, but... I don't think it can really be avoided now. No matter who you are, where you came from... w-what your situation is, don't give up. As cliche as it is to say... it really does get better if you keep movin' forward. And don't... don't let anyone stop you. You deserve better than people steppin' all over you.

"And... for the love of God... take better care of yourself than I did.

"So... I guess that's it for this channel. Again, thank you so much for followin' me. And if you're just tunin' in now, please go back and watch my older videos. You... you deserve to see me in a better state than this...

"'Bye, everyone."

When he turned off the recording, his stomach ached. He was a mess, trying hard not to lose his composure even though he knows he'd failed halfway through. It was an awful video. But he knew that he really wouldn't be able to do better than this.

It took him almost two hours to get the nerve to post it, but he did. And it would be the last time he would visit his channel.

In this lifetime.

A week later, he'd let himself peacefully slip away in a hospital bed, his last feelings being deep relief that finally, it all was over.

And five minutes later, he jolted awake once again to the sound of fluttering, silky wings and a whisper of scripture. But the whispers were quickly drowned out by the shouts and declarations of 'miracle!' as the young man with AIDS returned to life, with not a trace of sickness in him.

The news travelled fast. And once he got the courage to look at his farewell video again, he could pinpoint the moment where the comments turned from condolences to the readers declaring he'd restored their faith in God.

This pleased his savior spirit greatly. But he just kind of wished he'd stayed dead.


	9. Luka

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Content Warning: Homophobia, hate crime

Luka dipped outside for a smoke. It wasn't that he was that much of an addict, but the air of a late spring evening was too alluring to stay cooped up in his workplace all night, and even someone like him needed a few seconds of quiet every now and then. It was in-between dances, anyway. No one would even notice that he'd left.

He shut the door behind him and leaned heavily against the wall in the alleyway, peering up through the buildings and lights to what meager amount of sky could be seen. Not really an ideal place for stargazing, but it was certainly calming. He tugged the pack of cigarettes out of his pocket, snagging one in his teeth and lighting up. The smoke he drew in added its chemicals to the cocktail drifting through his veins, and he let it out slowly, the cloud spiraling its way up to that patch of sky and fading into the blackness. His body loosened, the subtle nicotine relaxation settling his nerves and putting a stop to those pesky nigglings of thought and regret. Life was good. People adored him, he grew up toned and beautiful, and no one would ever have to know what he'd survived, what he'd given up to get to this point.

Maybe his habits were unhealthy and dangerous, but really, who cared? He was 20 years old and already right where he wanted to be. So what if he would be gone in ten years? Die young and leave a pretty corpse.

As he lowered his head, letting smoke drift from his nose before blowing it too away, Luka glanced out of the alley to the street in time to see someone happen by. He smiled. It was a handsome young thing who'd attended a party he'd gone to that weekend, older but not by much. He didn't even know the man's name, but still memories, fogged by alcohol and God knows what other substances, filled his head. This one had been especially passionate. They must have easily spent three hours in that room together, the man so eager to touch and fondle and fuck every inch of him, all with this look of awe on his face. This was no surprise to Luka. It was a common reaction to someone as gorgeous as himself. What did surprise him was the crying afterward. The drunken, emotional babbling, only half-understood but meaningful in its own pathetic way.

Luka dropped the spent cigarette to the ground, stamping it out and quickly following the man.

"Hey!" he shouted after him, quickly catching up. "Didn't think I'd see you again. How've you been doing?" He was smiling, just a bit coyly.

The man, however, didn't look pleased to see him. His eyes went wide, as if he'd seen a ghost. His teeth grit sharply.

"You... you alright there? Come on, remember me?" Luka said, trying to sound cheerful but there was something very unsettling about the wild look that filled the man's face.

"Get the fuck away from me..." The man answered, practically growling.

"If you don't want to talk about it, that's okay." Luka already was starting to back away. "I just wanted to see if you were alright. We don't have to-"

"I said shut up, faggot." he interrupted.

Luka went dead silent, going still and looking as if he'd been slapped. The silence hung, heavy and oppressive until something began to break through the shock. Anger.

"Excuse me?" Luka finally answered, his hands starting to shake and his voice twisting into a snarling whisper. "What did you just say? You were the one that fucked me! That was your idea. If I'm a faggot, then you're one t-"

He was cut off as the man grabbed his wrist, squeezing it hard enough to leave a bruise.

"If you're not gonna shut up, then I'll make you." The man dragged him back towards the alleyway. Panic started to settle in, and Luka drew in a breath to shout, only to feel the wind knocked out of him as the man's fist connected with his stomach. He doubled over, but wasn't about to give up, clawing and biting and throwing blows of his own, fueled by anger. It wasn't his fault that this guy regret what he did! What the hell was so wrong with trying to be a good person, to check up on someone? Fuck this guy, he deserves any beating he could possibly get.

All thought, all struggle, all the raging stopped when something hard pressed just underneath his ribcage. Something sharp that drew a strangled sound from his throat. For a split second he thought the silence would save him, that it was an empty threat that would go away when he stopped moving. Then the knife bottomed out against his skin. He felt the trickle of blood start to pool on his clothing before the pain started, his heart starting to race as the realization sunk in. The world around him faded away, even the pain of the five inches of metal stuck in his skin seeming so distant as shock settled into his being. This wasn't real. The sounds of his own choked sobs hit his ears but never translated. He might have been saying words, might have been begging for his life or spitting swears,but he would never know.

The knife pulled away, tearing its way out before making another hole. And another. Eventually, frustrated that the crying and screaming hadn't stopped, he slashed that pretty white neck, deep enough to where everything was finally quieted in a torrent of blood.

The man abandoned the knife, thrown into the dumpster with the body, now completely still.

* * *

 

An hour later, Luka awoke again, surrounded by pitch darkness and a terrible reek of copper and garbage. As he regained consciousness, panic quickly wormed its way through delirium and weakness, and even if he didn't understand where he was or what had just happened, it pressed him on to escape.

He fell to the ground at the foot of the dumpster, the smell of blood still heavy in the air even outside of it. His body was mostly numb, but his own choked breathing confirmed to himself that he was alive. An ache radiated from his throat and stomach, dull and pulsing, but he couldn't stop now. He had to...he had to...

Darkness was setting in again, but he peered up through shattered glasses, eyes half-focused anyway, contacting with another pair. Brown and sad-looking, hovering above a dull silver binding and framed by flowing, smoke-like hair. A girl. Who she was, he didn't know. Had he met her before?

She held him as he lost consciousness again, running her hands through his blood-tipped hair. She stayed with him when he was finally found, finally brought to medical attention, but no one else could see her.

He eventually found out that she'd allowed him to cheat death. She'd given him a second chance. But what would he do with it now?


	10. Alois

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Content Warning: Alois is a bastard

Another job well done, but what a mess the man's spattered brains and blood had made of the room. It certainly wasn't Alois's fault, even if he was the one that pulled the trigger. Some people just have to be silenced, for one reason or another. There was nothing left to do but clean up. He untied the body from the chair, letting it fall onto the tarps underneath to finish bleeding out. The others were rolled up and set to the side. Have to burn those later, he thought. But first things first, there was other business to attend to. He packed the now-drained body into a number of black bags. He made his way upstairs, changing out of the bloodstained clothing and eventually driving the sleek black luxury car away from the beautiful mansion he called home, bloody cargo sealed securely in the trunk.  
  
Life was good.

What more was there to ask for? He was successful, rich, spent his life doing whatever he wanted and got rewarded for it. And why shouldn't he? The world itself recognized his superiority. It had to.

Still, this was a trip he was hoping to make quickly. It wasn't often that he drove the night streets, but no one would notice or care. It wouldn't take long...

Blinding headlights filled his rearview mirrors, and he swore under his breath. Tailgated? Why? He wasn't even driving slow. Irritated, he turned off, hoping to take another path to his destination. A second's darkness and the lights returned again, close enough that he feared they would scuff the back bumper. More worrying than that was the realization that he was being followed. A closer look revealed that it wasn't the police, but still, this was attention he would hope to avoid.

Remaining as calm as he could, he kept going, winding around back streets but his pursuer refused to let up. Suddenly, as he was about to turn a truck screeched its way in front of him and stopped, blocking his exit and forcing him to slam his breaks.   
Alois reached into the glove compartment, pulling a gun from it and hiding it in his coat pocket just as someone stepped over. There was a knock on his window.

"What seems to be the trouble?" Alois said, his voice very tightly controlled. He met the gaze of a man roughly his age, dark-haired and vicious-looking, cold eyes boring into him. But Alois's were sharper still, icy blue and studying his face for the best place to bury a bullet.

"Don't play stupid with me, Mr. Lowe." the man growled, "A very valued associate of ours disappeared last night. You wouldn't happen to know anything about that, would you?"

Oh dear, he thought. Was that poor sod in the back one of this man's boys? Or had it been another who refused to give up what was due? Who was this, anyway? Could be any number of people. Still, it wasn't his fault for any upsets, of course.

"I honestly have no idea what you're talking about," he said, voice smooth as silk, with a hint of steel underneath, "I'm certain this is all just a misunderstanding. Now if you could please just let me go..."

There was the sound of scraping metal behind his vehicle. Before he realized what was going on back there, he heard the trunk swing open, the tearing of plastic before a voice rang out.

"There he is! Back of his head's blown clean out!"

That was the breaking point. Before his foot could hit the gas pedal, a bullet burst its way through the car window, missing any vital parts but leaving a nasty gash against his cheek. The hole was followed by a fist that unlocked the door and dragged the man out. The boss threw Alois against the wall. He was prepared, of course, and scrambled back onto his feet immediately, pulling his gun.   
In that last split second, his finger on the trigger and ready to fire back, he hesitated.

Six men surrounded him, all with guns trained on him.

Before he could fire once, twelve holes burst their way through his body, spattering their red mess on the wall behind him. Before he lost consciousness, there was one feeling, one last flicker that went through his dying mind. It wasn't pain.

It was fear. The first he'd ever remember feeling.

He awoke to the sound of screeching tires and gunfire. His icy eyes snapped open, scanning the surrounding area.

A quiet, peaceful hospital room. Sun was filtering in from the window, and his body was carefully wrapped in bandages.

He was alive? But how? He'd felt the cold embrace of death. His heart had stopped, and his blood still stained that back street, didn't it? It was all gone. All...

No, that wasn't right, he thought. The cogs began to turn. He had died, that much couldn't be denied. But here he was, breathing, his heart beating and only a dull ache coming from those twelve bullet holes, nothing more.

He had died, but not even death could stop him. He was above even that.

He couldn't help himself. He grinned and started to laugh, at no one in particular, but there was nothing else to do. This was pure euphoria, and that terrible spike of fear would never come to haunt him again. It couldn't.

After a few minutes, a creature of chrome metal, gunpowder, raining bullets, grinned back.


	11. Zerah

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Content Warning: Drug use, overdose

Most Sin-Eaters know well the shock of death, how quickly it came to them. For many, it was something very sudden, hitting them out of nowhere. But there are others, like Zerah, where it was merely the culmination of a short lifetime of self-destruction. Not because of self-hatred or a lack of care, but because they simply couldn't see any other path.

He started much like any other child. It didn't matter that his mother worked herself to the bone to support him, how she told him to stay inside after a certain hour at night because that was when the bad people came out to roam the streets. How food never seemed to come easily to their tiny family and how it was always a little too cold in the winter. When he was small, everything was so fascinating, so beautiful. He would marvel at the bright burst of yellow of the dandelion that grew in the cracks of the sidewalk, carefully plucking it free from between the broken brown glass that surrounded it.

It would have been so nice, he thought often, if it could have stayed that way, but the weight of poverty couldn't be ignored. The lines in his mother's face became clearer to him, even as she tried to hide them. He couldn't stand to see her like that, so sad. So what if they were poor? Just because he could see the world for what it was didn't mean that was any excuse to give up, right? He poured himself into everything he did, into schoolwork and music, in hopes that she would at least never have to worry about him again.

No matter what, it was never enough. The teachers moved too fast for him to catch up, and when he had trouble understanding there was a sick feeling in his stomach. He wasn't dumb, he knew that much, but there was something humiliating about being left behind like that. He tried playing guitar, but he was always passed over for the smaller, prettier boys. He wasn't the type they wanted to give a chance anyway. Too slow, too dirty. A big, thuggish boy that was an embarrassment to the rest of the school. The only place that he would end up is prison, he overheard one day.

It broke his heart, and it was that moment that the innocence sputtered and faded, existing merely as a tiny ember in his chest. If a big thug was all anyone ever thought he would be, he might as well get it over with. He immersed himself in that world, blowing through every night with parties and drugs until he could no longer feel anything, much less any pain from what he'd lost. Hell, even through this he could make the money to support himself and his mother, since his massive size and strength let him win fights at the clubs easily. For a while, things seemed like they might be alright. Maybe those who doubted him before were right. In some way, he felt like he belonged.

It couldn't last. It took a while, but being no longer able to feel was wearing on him, and that last little spark refused to die. At that point, though, the only way to feel anything at all was to take more and more substances, hoping one of them would finally break through the fog and get a reaction. Even men his size have a breaking point, and he didn't realize just how much his body had been worn down until it was too late. One night, he took his doses and everything started to grow dark. His heart slowed, further and further until he barely had a pulse, a roiling, distant nausea in his stomach as his functions gradually shut down, unable to handle the cocktail of poisons being forced into them. It was quiet. It was painless. It was just like falling asleep.

* * *

 

But some part realized what was happening. Abruptly the spark rose once more into a roaring flame, refusing to let its body just roll over and give up. When he opened his eyes once more he looked out into the filthy room with more lucidity than he'd had in years. What was he doing? He didn't belong here, on a dirty floor, surrounded by needles and pills and bottles of God-knows what. He knew what he'd been doing, and he'd make his peace with that. But for now, he had to leave, follow that fire in his heart and go home.

It was only when he got up did he notice that that wasn't the only fire present. Something floated in front of his eyes, something bright and beautiful. When he reached for it, his hand phased right through it, but it whispered to him, telling him that it was very real. It had a form like fire, a shifting ball of what looked almost like wings, hundreds of flickering feathers in red and orange and yellow. They rubbed together, filling the air around him with soft, indistinct whispers, words too quiet for him to understand but words all the same.

Quietly, reverently, he asked it what it was. He blinked and the answer was splayed out on the inside of his eyelids, which startled him. He saw his limp body lying on the ground, skin already a horrible, pallid gray. He saw an image of himself, eyes a brighter blue than he'd ever seen, in some dark place talking to the creature. He saw the two of them make an agreement, and then himself returning to life. It was all he needed to know.

Whatever this thing was, it saved his life. And already it was urging him to use the gift it had given him to make things better. It burned in time with his inner fire. And he was more determined than ever to make it a reality.


	12. Candy

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Content Warning: Nothing in particular, but it's a crossover!

Candy's parents told her that she would die out there on the streets. Maybe, secretly, they hoped she would. Honestly, though, she never thought it was that bad. The quiet was refreshing. The sound of passing cars and idle conversation from passerby was blissful silence compared to the constant screaming and bitching that underscored her life before. She could handle the smell of exhaust and garbage, as long as it wasn't stale beer from thrown bottles or mold growing in the filthy shag carpet of the trailer. How could two people live in such filth and constant anger? Maybe it was easier for her to understand than most. Constant noise and aggression meant never letting her guard down, not seeing anything but what's right in front of you.

If there was one good thing it had given her, she was well-equipped for her new life. Any other girl would have ended up with some awful fate by some guy who said just the right words. Not Candy. Even the boldest potential predator didn't want to deal with getting shanked in the stomach, and the second she made her intentions clear by flashing her knife, they would back off. She was hard, already trained to never show an inch of vulnerability or the whole would would descend on her.

Which is why it was so strange when she met the one who would eventually kill her. He seemed so innocuous at first, a big, awkward man that made the hair on the back of her neck stand on end. He didn't do a single thing that would out him as someone dangerous, but something about him just _disgusted_ her. His movements were wrong, his voice grated even though he barely spoke. She never knew if it was just her imagination, but even when he did say something, it seemed somehow insulting, no matter what it was.

She tried to avoid him, but no matter where she went, he was there. He had to be stalking her, she thought. He never did a thing, oftentimes didn't even look at her, but she could feel him drive her out of her mind. This uncomfortable man was planning something. He had to be. But where could she turn? No one would care about the safety of some homeless girl. There was only one thing to do. At first it seemed insane, but the more she saw him the more something whispered to her that it was the right thing to do.  


She would track him down, and she would kill him herself.

It was easy to find his hiding spot. The next time she saw him out somewhere it was her turn to stalk him. He noticed pretty quickly, walking faster, but she didn't let up. There was something satisfying, seeing him have that same fear that he'd inflicted on her. He tried to shut the door of those abandoned apartments behind him, but she picked the lock. She drew her knife and he just stared at her with that dumb, horrible look on his face.

He didn't even fight back when she drove the knife into him. Didn't flinch. Barely showed any pain. She plunged it into him, again and again but he wouldn't die. The only thing that changed was the look on his face. The idiot fear gave way to something darker, like fire and smoke and pure hatred behind his eyes. Only now did she notice the immense strength bristling through his body. In those seconds as he wrapped his hands around her head, she swear she saw sparks jump across his form.

She only had those few seconds to feel fear, because soon the world went dark as he snapped her neck.

* * *

  
She woke back up to the feeling of those same hands on her body. She was stripped completely naked, but there was nothing sinister about his touches. They were gentle, reverent, and as the sight returned to her dead eyes she could see an intense sadness in his face. In his hands he held a large needle that trailed some thick leather thread, that he was tracing along her skin, from the base of her neck to under her arms in some careful, deliberate motion.

It took him a moment to realize that she was breathing once more. He yelped, dropping the needle as she sat back up, alive as she'd ever been. Even as she herself screamed at the sheer shock of the situation, she looked at him and, for the first time, he didn't repulse her. She was still terrified of him, since he killed her and all, but he wasn't inherently disgusting like he had been. He didn't make a single move to stop her, even setting out her clothes for her as she hastily put them on and bolted from the room.

It was halfway down the street that she realized that she wasn't alone. Something followed her, something she felt before she saw. It was like a roiling thundercloud surrounding her, static electricity and frustration flooding the air. It wasn't merely a feeling, there was an intent and intelligence behind it, thought even if it was rather base. She had to look for a moment to find the source, but eventually she found it.

It was surprisingly still for the intense emotion that was pouring out of it, a simplified figure of a lion carved from amber, sitting down with its mouth wrapped around a rough, unshaped ball of copper. Within its golden body rue and nasturtium were frozen in stasis, as absolutely motionless as the rest of the creature. And yet its eyes were very much alive, the two points as bright and fierce as a lightning bolt, and she shuddered when she looked into them. She tried to pick it up and it disappeared from underneath her hands. But she could still feel it watching her, staring straight through her.

Everywhere she looked, the thing would be somewhere within vision. It didn't take long to put together that this thing, whatever it was, was what had returned her to life.

And it would keep watching, seeing what she would do next.


	13. Isra

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Content Warning: Wartime violence

Isra was hardly a stranger to conflict by the sole nature of her upbringing in this turbulent region. If it wasn't this group trying to move in and claim power and resources and influence, it was another. As unfortunate as it was, there was only one language a government like this would understand. Their aggression would be paid back in kind.

The Arab Spring exploded into a blazing Summer, a wildfire of grenade blasts and bullet spray lighting up the civilian streets. Isra herself had taken part in raiding a police station, relieving a government sector of weapons that would find a better use. The Damascus suburb where she had spent her childhood became a warzone, and she was determined to push back the invaders.

With her pilfered weapons she ducked behind a pile of sandbags and barrels, and peered out into the streets. No military in sight now, but the sound of puttering tank engines in the distance was clear. How nice it would have been to think it was merely an intimidation tactic, but the streets were flooded with the rubble of falling buildings. They would use whatever tactics they could to destroy the opposition.

But Isra was unafraid.

The rebellion had a few military goals. The first and most obvious was to push them back. Even if she and her brothers in arms were outgunned, smart enough strategy would be plenty to potentially force a retreat. Isra, meanwhile, volunteered to help storm an intelligence office nearby. It was so close, she thought. An easy target with some clever thinking. Some of the deserters had even gotten their hands on some good and proper missiles.

There was still the very real possibility of death, and yet she still was prepared to make her move. All the training would build up to this very moment.

And it was time.

Forward the small makeshift battalion went in the dead of night, Isra hanging behind, gun tight in her hand. They darted from building to building, avoiding the sound of rumbling vehicles and marching boots as they picked their way through the ruin. It wasn't far now, and the cover was excellent. It had to succeed. It had to.

The hope of a painless mission died with a burst of fire, a blinding detonation in the darkness that rocketed towards the group. It slammed into the wall of a nearby building, sending it toppling down, dust cascading around their feet. Isra's eyes darted back and forth, but the blast left her ears ringing, the drone drowning out the sounds of screams and shouts. Once she could see again, she watched as her comrades ran on ahead, making their move among the chaos.

Maybe they would succeed, but it was too late for her to join them. Only one thing could be done now. She had to provide a distraction, try to take down as many of her attackers as she could.

Keeping out of the way of the falling building, she armed her gun and rose up from behind a parked car, peppering burst after burst into the darkness. The gunfire illuminated the dark streets, giving her a flash of an image of one soldier's body jerking and falling under the spray. One down. But how many others are there? She knew she had to keep low. Lowering her gun, she fled to another car, this one overturned. Another soldier fell, and another.

As she was fleeing from hiding place to hiding place, more explosions echoed. But these came from their targets, the rockets igniting the base quickly. Despite it all, all the death, the destruction, she smiled. They had, at least, finished what they started.

For that brief second, she didn't notice that the blaze did more than accomplish their mission. It also lit up her whole body, in clear sight of the enemy.

One second was all it took, and by the time she realized her mistake. As soon as she tried to take it back and duck for cover, the bullets ripped through every bit of her skin they could seek out.

* * *

The sun rose and Isra's eyes fluttered open. Where was she? They had succeeded, but what had actually happened?

She sat up immediately, the only moving body out of dozens that were all laid out on tarps, all with varying degrees of damage. A pool of blood had soaked into her clothes, and when she put her hand to the ground she touched bullets.

What the...

It didn't take long to come to her, as she felt over her body. Certain places had little dimples... no, scars. Scars where the bullets had been pulled out of her. There was no doubt. She had died. Not a few minutes ago, she was just as dead as any other body here.

Then how was she alive now?

She got her answer through a gentle plinking circling her head. Soft, almost melodic. It would have been comforting if she didn't immediately recognize it as the sound of gunfire on metal.

It was a great serpent, and for a moment it looked to be made of wood. No... no, it was the same rubble she'd seen on the streets, come down from the building. It shed fine dust and pebbles as it moved that dissipated into the air, never seemed to stain anything underneath. Something shifted over it that shined in the morning light, hundreds of little points of light. On a closer look, it was bullet casings, scurrying in lines like ants, disappearing in the cracks to reemerge somewhere else.

The thing seemed to notice she was staring, and the stones and chunks rearranged themselves, arms and legs and a head, just like a human. It knelt down to her. Stared right back and sang its eerie song.

This had been the thing that saved her life. And would forever be a reminder of what she'd survived.


	14. Din

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Content Warning: Death by exposure

Alice Springs, Australia. The center for the Royal Flying Doctor Service, a service that Din Lumos had worked in for a few years as a registered nurse. He was well-respected among the force, a calm and warm presence who had a knack for getting on with the locals of the distant towns to which they would fly. Interested in their culture, he would keep patients calm by asking them to tell him of their legends, their stories, and he would listen passionately. Sometimes he would share his own stories, and this, even aside from his skill as a nurse, made him a valuable member of the team.

This was, or at least was supposed to be, another routine expedition. An emergency transmission came in from one of the tiny communities near Uluru, a snakebite. Din's other specialty was dealing with animals, both the creatures themselves and potential attacks, so he was a natural choice. He and two other doctors stocked the plane with medical supplies and a stretcher. Before long, they were ready to take off, and the plane kicked up a cloud of red dust that scattered in the sweltering summer air. Din's ears popped as they gained altitude, and soon they glided over the Outback.

He stared out the window, out into the flat expanses of sand and dust. His eyes traced the windswept dunes and sunbaked scrubs. Another scorcher, for sure. A smile crossed his face as small figures moved among the desert land, a small group. No. A mob.

"How do you fellas do it." he muttered to himself, but the kangaroos soon faded out of sight as the flight continued its course. He had been on the verge of falling asleep when the plane gave a lurch, and suddenly a very nasty grinding noise emanated from what had to be the engines. He got to his feet, rushed into the cockpit.

"The hell is going on?" he said, alarmed. "Is everything alright?"

"I... Hell, we're going down! Take cover!" The pilot barked, and Din had only enough time to leap towards the back before the plane dropped again, falling, falling, and finally grinding its nose into the dirt below.

The next few seconds were noise and smoke and fire. The wreckage finally came to a stop, smoldering in a blackened, crumpled heap. Curled into a tight ball, Din finally unraveled himself, wedged between a seat and part of what once was the inner wall of the plane. He called out, but there was no answer. The pilot was dead, for sure. He could see from where he was that the front end was crushed against the ground. Not too far from him, flat on the floor was a body, its head trapped under the stretcher. It vaguely twitched. His fellow doctor had also not survived.

He was the only one left.

Definitely shaken, he still knew what he had to do. Groping around the pocket of the body, he retrieved the radio, praying silently to himself that it was still intact, and evacuated the plane before it completely flooded with smoke.

He was forced out into the sweltering desert in the dead of summer, and nothing but the clothes on his back could shelter him from the heat.

Stay calm, he thought to himself. This isn't a death sentence. Just call for help. He lifted the radio to his mouth, already feeling sweat pour down his face in heavy beads.

"Din Lumos to Alice Springs. Do y'hear me? My plane has gone down on route to Uluru. Please send backup. Repeat. Send backup."

No answer.

Shit.

With smoke pouring out of the plane's frame, the only thing he could do was look for another radio. And possibly water. There had to be water on board, didn't there? How far was he from a civilization, anyway? The heat was already beginning to cloud his mind and his judgement. It couldn't be that far. It couldn't. They had gained so much ground. It was the only chance he had of getting help, both for himself and the poor victim that still awaited them in the village.

He began to walk, and before long he saw buildings in the distance. So close... so close...

Before long feeling seeped from his body, weakness taking its place. His eyelids drooped as his head pounded, crying out for water and shade but after walking so long he was still no closer to the buildings. They're not real, you idiot... They're just rocks. Just rocks. It was the last conscious thought he comprehended before his legs gave way, losing the last of their strength and sending him tumbling onto the desert ground. He breathed in dust and didn't care. Couldn't push himself up, still didn't care.

He just closed his eyes. Soon, the pain stopped.

* * *

 

When he opened his eyes again, he was surrounded by darkness. No, that wasn't entirely true. Turning his gaze upwards with newfound strength, he found himself faced with a dazzling expanse of stars, unmarred by any city lights.

But, even more amazingly, surrounding his cooked skin was a blissful, soothing coolness, not just from the night air, but there was something else...

It took a moment to focus on it, but there were faint patterns tracing along the emptiness. Those of roiling waves, blue and white spray twisting around his body. It came more into focus and green tendrils wove their way underneath the phantom waves.

Water? But his rapidly-recovering consciousness knew he was still in the middle of the desert. Even if it was nighttime, there was no water here.

Then he saw its face.

It was a mask, and not like the ones the natives of his own country made. This one was long, its face tapering into a blunt snout that twisted up into a toothy grin, painted in black and red and white. Its eyes, intense but unfocused, stared off into the sky. It never opened its mouth, but still it gave off the sound of rushing water and cracking trees, creaking metal and the occasional scream.

It jabbed him with its snout until he stood, though the thing seemed mostly immaterial. The most bizarre thing he'd ever seen in his life, but he knew that he had to be somewhat grateful. There was some understanding, in the back of his mind, that this creature had saved him from death.

When he finally got back to his feet, limbs filled with newfound strength, the beast pointed its face towards the southwest, sending waves in that direction. He understood the message, and once again began to walk. But this time, he reached his destination.


	15. Ariel

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Content Warning: Child death/murder, ableism

They came to their senses in an empty, dark room, bent over the side of their bed, facing the floor, entire body trembling. It was their own bedroom, they knew that much, but as their awareness came creeping back, it wasn't the same safety they knew. Something smelled acrid, and their throat burned like fire. There was a horrible mess on the floor, overwhelming to so much as look at. They looked up and saw a flash of white on the nightstand, the only thing that reflected the light from the cracked-open door. A bottle of pills on the table, tipped over, empty.

What had happened?

They sat up on the bed, moving to their feet. Even in the near-lightless room, a shadow was still cast on the floor. It wasn't theirs. It was a different shape and seemed to sometimes move on its own, but it still clung to their heels as they left the room. It swallowed the sound of their footsteps and their still-ragged breathing, pulling away the glare of the hall light. It was strange, but comforting. One less source of stress until they found out what had gone wrong.

It was an accident. They could be sure of that, couldn't they? They'd misbehaved again, acted out and gotten into something they shouldn't have. Even if they don't remember doing it, it certainly would have been in character. Another mistake, another thing done wrong. But they could at least find Mother and show her that everything was alright. They'd try their best not to do it again.

She wasn't home. No one was. This made them more nervous; she had never left them home alone, knowing that they couldn't be trusted with anything. The house was still and silent, but they noticed that the computer was still on. Mother was often on it, typing away to who-even-knows. Maybe it might hold a clue as to where she had gone. Her disappearance was already starting to chafe.

It was opened to a page that she was often on, her own blog. They'd never paid the thing much mind before, really. It was a post still in editing, not yet sent. Strange. They began to read, and noticed the tale that the post was spinning.

 _My poor child,_ it said, _was found dead in her room after a catastrophic seizure. It came out of nowhere, finally stealing away my child for good and taking away any hope of getting her back. Years and years of trying to pull this bright, beautiful young girl out of her shell of disease, all my suffering trying to do my best for her, come to such a tragic end._

The words caused the most terrible itching underneath their skin. The child being described, it didn't feel like them, felt wrong. But who else could it have been?

Found dead... But that wasn't true. They were here, very much alive. Nothing added up. was everything in this post a lie? Why would Mother say things like this?

They kept looking, finding more posts on the blog.

 _Alicia caused a scene at the store today._  
_Alicia is turning 13 soon and still can't speak._  
_Alicia had another meltdown._  
_I just can't take Alicia anywhere._  
_Alicia will never tell me she loves me._

 _Alicia will never really grow up._  
_Loving Alicia is hard, and she makes it harder every day._

All of the posts were like this. The pieces came together in their head and crept into their stomach like a sickness. The image of the pills on the nightstand flashed in their head and they cringed, threading their fingers in their hair, feeling the nails dig in because the pain of that was better than the blow that struck their core and rung through their body.

They were a burden, weren't they? Too difficult to keep. As easy it would have been to pretend that who was being described wasn't really who they were, they couldn't. She'd tried to get rid of them, quietly in the night, and maybe hope that no one would find out the truth. Who would miss this changeling when the real child went missing long ago?

But they were still here. The shadow crept up their legs, draping over their back and linking its pitch arms around their shoulders.

  
Some part of them hadn't wanted to die, and held on. The shadow gave a squeeze, a blissful pressure as if it understood.  
  
What was clear was that they couldn't stay here. If they weren't wanted, and wouldn't stay dead, then the only thing would be to go somewhere else. Maybe there, they could be the person they felt they were, and not the lost child that Mother seemed to miss, one that never existed. Just the idea was terrifying. Everything would change, everything they took comfort in would have to be rebuilt. But what was the alternative?

They disappeared, leaving no trace at the home other than gathering up a few of their most treasured belongings, leaving their old life and name behind. Maybe the road ahead would bring with it something more fitting. And maybe it would soothe the ache in their body at what had happened, tell them that they might just matter in the eyes of someone, even if they hadn't found it yet.


	16. Stan

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Content Warning: Stan is a bastard

"Here's the thing about the world; it won't give you shit. No matter where you turn, no matter who you think you can trust, there's a dozen eyes on you, ready to tear you down and take advantage of you. So you have two choices: You can get on your knees and say yes sir, shove that cock a little further down my throat, or you can say fuck it, and just start taking what you want."

The latter was the course that Stanford Farkas had adopted, and he'd never looked back. On some level, maybe he was aware that it was a path that would lead to an early, violent death. More likely, he didn't care. How could he, when every day was its own high? He owed nothing to nobody. No obligations, no pretension, no bullshit pity. He'd bet that, if anyone else had a shred of fucking honesty, they'd kill for the kind of life he lived.

And with a new day, came a new hunt. He'd picked his target carefully, some shitty faux-mansion owned by people just getting their first taste of big money. Rich enough to bring in a good haul, still naive enough to not have learned how to protect it properly. Finds like this were rare, and he'd taken down bigger targets than this. No way this could go wrong.

Isn't that always how it goes.

He reached the target at midday, because only pussies and idiots try to break in when a house is most likely to be guarded. Besides, the brilliant owners of this particular home didn't even have a security system. Fucking incredible. These people deserved to be robbed. Empty driveway. Front door locked. Windows closed. Perfect. He made quick work of the lock, and slipped in, right through the fucking front door.

Time to make the rounds, he thought. First, straight up to the master bedroom where he's greeted by a nice-looking jewelry box which he quickly stashes away. Off to the bathroom. Codeine, ephedrine, valium... This place is better than he could have expected. He'd just started and already he was on track to make some serious bank.

His first sign that something was wrong was when he turned into the kitchen, finding a rather girly wallet sitting on the table. Someone might still be here... But that wasn't necessarily game over. He'd just snatch the wallet and be off with his prizes. His blood went cold when he heard something from down the hall. The distinct dialing of a cell phone, and a woman's voice. Sure enough, down the hall was some overstuffed cunt in a too-small tanktop, blubbering into her phone. To the police.

Fuck.

Stupid! So fucking stupid! It wasn't regret that started welling up in him, but absolute, indignant rage. He'd gotten caught during the easiest job he could have possibly done, just through dumb bad luck. Even worse, he could already hear the sirens coming from outside. Naturally. The pigs always respond fastest to bitches who cry loud enough.

Going out the front door would be too risky. Maybe he could sneak out the back, but anger was starting to flood his mind as it often did. It had a way of seducing him into making bad decisions. If he was quick, he could run off into the neighbor's shrubs, possibly escape under cover. But as the tires screeched outside and the cops started rushing out, he was hit by another idea. What if he could take one of them out? Yeah, bitch didn't see his gun. They don't know he's armed.

Serves them right for fucking up his perfect job.

The cops scattered around the area, still looking for the assailant, but he was still hidden from their sight. He pulled his piece and lined up his shot. Yeah, that tough guy right there. Gonna drop that one, he thought. He fired. And missed, the bullet grazing the officer's shoulder as he jerked out of the way at the last second.

The next few moments were a blur, of shouting from the police and Stan shouting back, the anger consuming what was left of his better judgment. The woman shrieked as gunfire filled the air outside, the chaos coming to an abrupt end when one of the bullets found its way into the side of Stan's head, snuffing him out in one clean, painless blow. Just like someone had simply turned out the lights.

* * *

  
He woke up, facing upwards to a sheet of blue that filtered in the light from outside. His head rested in a warm, sticky pool, and as his hearing returned to him, he could hear muffled sobbing from outside, along with a man's voice sounding vaguely comforting.

What the fuck.

It was hard to crawl out from the body bag without making a sound, but it was clear that whoever was left on the scene was too busy to pay attention to what was supposed to be a corpse. At least dying had brought back, bizarrely, a sense of clarity to him, just long enough for his instincts to take over and quickly remove himself from the scene.

Then, there was time to freak out.

He rubbed the back of his head, pulling back a hand that was absolutely soaked in his own blood. Feeling over more, he felt something sliding out, slowly, from what was clearly a bullet hole. A bullet, of course, that clinked against the ground, leaving his brain once more intact. He wasn't sure whether he should be terrified (fuck that shit, he tried to convince himself. I don't get scared...) or amazed that he'd survived getting shot in the fucking head.

All other emotions were cut short when he realized he wasn't alone. His new friend made itself clear, when it howled and begged in the voice of a young woman, undercut with the sound of sharpening blades and a knife slicing through muscle tissue.

It was a massive bird made of about a thousand ways to kill a person, from machetes to bullet casings to piano wire. There might have been countless other murder implements, but they were all hidden under, bizarrely, a black, tattered coat.

It leaned down, massive, empty black eyes staring at and through him. It tilted its head. Whatever the fuck this thing was... it almost looked impressed. Maybe. Who could possibly tell? And, as jarring as it was, the feeling was slightly infectious.


End file.
